Memoirs of a Phat Chick~ The funny, heartbreaking, honest musings of a dented writer...

Memoirs of a Phat Chick

Saturdays

Saturday
was the best day of our week. Charlie’s Chips delivered his giant cans of
cheese balls and potato chips to Wally’s house, cartoons started bright and
early, and adventure waited just outside our front doors.

Every
Saturday began the same and varied little in the eternity that followed its
inception. By eight o’clock, Wally and Edward would burst through my front
door, breakfast in hand, to find my brother well into his second hour of
cartoons and third bowl of Fruit Loops.

My
brother’s Saturday started at the crack of dawn. He watched every cartoon and
he watched them religiously. I think he was an addict. I tried to get my
parents to do an intervention once. I suggested it was for his own good but in
reality I was just sick to death of watching Scooby Doo and The
Flintstones after school everyday. When the mere mention of amending our
viewing habits came up, my brother lost his mind; a valuable lesson in choosing
my battles more judiciously.

Eventually,
Fran usurped us both and kept us on a steady diet of Red Sox games
and M.A.S.H. reruns.

To
this day I still hate Scooby Doo and I’m completely certain my
brother is a closet cartoon junkie.

We
all have our demons.

The
early morning cartoon fare was weak and never lured me from my bed a second before
I had to get up. It was still dark when New Zoo Review started. I
have no idea what those people were thinking. I made the mistake once and
quickly realized it was hardly worth getting out of bed for at six in the
morning. Davey and Goliath followed, with its creepy pious Claymation
and dogma-ridden dialogue that would seep into my dreams early, planting seeds,
just before consciousness would take its full grasp. Long enough for Davy to
remind me I had things to feel guilty about when my feet hit the eventual
floor. Then, Tom and Jerry, where at least I could drift carelessly,
uninterested in who caught who: mindless, endless chasing was not my idea of a
cartoon. I had standards after all.

Ultimately,
I’d hear the three of them scheming, devising devilish tactics to rouse me. I’m
not sure who they were kidding we all knew none of them would muster the
courage to execute them.

“If
we put her hand in warm water she’ll pee herself!”

“We
could crawl into her room with pots and pans and on the count of three just
bang the shit out of them! It’ll scare her half to death!”

They’d
roar with laughter. They were always Edward’s inspirations and immediately shot
down by Wally.

Evil
geniuses they were not. I would have shared their hesitation if I were
plotting; retaliation was real and swift. I guess the planning had to be enough
or at least that is what we told ourselves; I can’t say for sure but I know I
never once woke up with anyone’s ass cheek pressed to my forehead or sporting a
magic marker mustache.

Eventually,
Peanut and Sal would arrive. Peanut was always half asleep. Sal would drag him
across the yard to make sure they were there by nine. The best cartoons started
at nine. I was always last. I would bolt from bed as soon as the first Bugs
Bunny overture began. After the usual “it lives” “nice hair” comments, we’d all
sit, silent, in our pajamas, eat cereal, and watch Bugs Bunny.
Consume Bugs Bunny. By ten-thirty we would disperse, dress and be on our
bikes, ready for escapade. My brother, in an effort to avoid trouble, and,
because there were still several hours of cartoons left to watch, rarely left
the house on Saturdays, at least before noon.

Sometimes
we were already in trouble and punished by noon. Fran used to say that my
brother was too scared to be stupid and I was too stupid to be scared. I guess
there is some truth to that. It didn’t matter. I waited all week for Saturdays
and I didn’t waste a minute of them. Especially since Sundays were hit or miss,
depending on how church went.

We
rode our bikes aimlessly hoping to come across a Whiffle ball game or a freshly
paved sidewalk, ripe for initial carving, or a fight. We weren’t picky. We’d
stop for candy and to investigate new road kill. One Saturday my mother came
home from the grocery store crying. She said she had just hit a squirrel. We
bolted from the house like it was on fire. We couldn’t get to the squished
rodent quick enough. We never touched them, just marveled at the pure
disgustingness of it all.

Just
when we thought Saturday’s couldn’t possibly get better, so began haircut day
in Wally’s garage. It was unbelievable, a rare divine gift. Other than Edward’s
basement there wasn’t a better place to be, ever. Wally and I would set up milk
crates close enough to be part of the action but far enough away to remain
under the radar.

Mr.
Janesky had five brothers. I have no idea who was the oldest or youngest. They
all looked exactly the same. They would arrive at Wally’s early Saturday
morning, each carrying his own case of beer. By mid-afternoon the beer was gone
and the haircuts would begin. None of them were barbers and whomever had the
misfortune of going last always got the worst haircut. More than once Mr.
Janesky ended up with a buzz cut just to repair what Uncle Vic or Uncle Henry
had done. Sometimes they would sport their unfortunate quaffs for the week and
try their luck again the following Saturday. Wally and I would laugh for days
about what each uncle must have looked like at work or bowling or whatever they
did. I knew nothing of them beyond Saturday haircuts. They all knew me, Wally’s
best friend; the one who did all the talking.

Once
Mr. Janesky cut Uncle Russell’s ear, and while the others laughed, Uncle
Russell chased Mr. Janesky around the yard until they were both too winded to
continue. It was a few weeks, maybe longer, before haircut Saturdays resumed.
Wally and I were heartbroken until we spotted Uncle Vic, beer in hand and
looking like a vagrant, pull into Wally’s driveway. I nearly cried with joy. I
loved Wally’s uncles, even if I couldn’t always tell them apart.

When
then weren’t doling out haircuts, they partied. Every Janesky family gatherings
took place at Wally’s house. I attended every one. The uncles would be
inebriated upon arrival. During a picnic for Wally’s birthday, Uncle Henry ran
over the Brown’s cat, Tootsie, while barreling into the driveway. Squished it
dead. Wally and I barely got a good look at it before Mr. Janesky and Uncle Vic
buried it in the back yard and swore us to secrecy.

We
ran and told Edward immediately. A dead cat was too good to keep. By the time
we returned Mr. Janesky was hosing Tootsie’s guts into the sewer drain. I bet
Edward’s still mad he missed it.

Uncle
Vic said it was better to let the Browns think Tootsie ran away than met his
fate via El Camino.

It
made me wonder if Wally’s dog really ran away. I don’t think Wally gave it a
second thought though. I wondered if Wally ever wondered
anything. He certainly didn’t seem too.

I was like your brother. I remember that Saturday morning line up well. Gumby and The Little Prince were after Davie & Goliath at some point. And New Zoo Revue was indeed the first show of the morning. Good times. I watched all the way through the ABC Saturday noon special.